


We Will Sleep Inside Our Ghosts

by an_aphorism



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Hand Jobs, Hedonism, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7947427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_aphorism/pseuds/an_aphorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He closes his eyes and turns over, back to Mr. Robot and sliding up against you. “I need to sleep,” Elliot mumbles into the pillow.</p><p> </p><p>Or, creative ways to use your dissociative identity disorder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Will Sleep Inside Our Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't find a story that really blurred the line between You/Reader being real or not, so I wrote it. 
> 
> Spoilers maybe if you haven't seen the first season?

You don’t concern yourself much with the origin of existence. Elliot has never asked so you don’t tell. You’re a balance on a razor edge, and mostly you like listening and Elliot likes talking. You and Elliot like a lot of the same things.

Your apartment has seen better days, it doesn’t need to be said. Elliot stumbles in and doesn’t bother with the lights, you’re not even sure the power is still on. Mr. Robot wants to know, he’s urging Elliot to the desk, but you hope he can put off the temptation. Elliot left Darlene’s with the excuse of being tired, and now he’d barely stumbled the way up the stairs to the apartment. Surely the rest of the world could wait just a little while.

Elliot turns away from the computer, away from Mr. Robot, and shuffles toward the bed. Mr. Robot is cruel though, impatient, he believes Elliot should suffer. Sometimes Elliot agrees with him. This time the words go unnoticed, the aggressive tone shrugged off. Elliot slides down onto the mattress, “I need to rest,” he says.

He closes his eyes and turns over, back to Mr. Robot and sliding up against you. “I need to sleep,” Elliot mumbles into the pillow.

You know, you can feel how tired he is, how frayed. The room is cold and smells stale like the air hasn’t moved in a very long time. The sound of pacing by the desk begins to fade away and you tug up the blankets to wrap Elliot up, to soothe him.

You lie there for long minutes, breathing the cold air and listening to the silence. You can almost hear Elliot’s heart beating steadily beneath his hoodie. His eyes are closed but they flicker, his brain connecting and disconnecting, trying to shut down. Sometime later you hear the huff of his frustration, feel him press his head into the pillow frustrated with how sleep evades him.

Elliot has always needed more. He does nothing by half, cannot succumb without a heavy hand holding him down. This is why Mr. Robot came in the first place. You can see that he needs the same here, needs a tight hand around his throat pushing him down, stifling him until he can flicker out and sleep.

You push back the hood and then carefully roll him back onto his back. Elliot goes with it, squirms up on his back until the sweatshirt has ridden up, the zipper tight against his throat. Elliot reaches a hand up to touch it, the metal cold against his skin, a slight bite of it pressing against his windpipe. Elliot doesn’t say anything, doesn’t protest, and his next breath comes out heavier, throaty.

Elliot doesn’t want to struggle, not really, he just wants someone other than him to guide. Mr. Robot moves Elliot by violence, but you want to show him that it’s not necessary, that gentleness is just as effective when it comes to this bruised boy in your care.

It’s too cold to pull down the blanket, you want Elliot to be warm and relaxed, so you reach beneath the blankets to undo the button of his jeans. He often goes to bed wearing them and you know it does nothing for his comfort. You unzip and then he raises his hips to help slide down the tight fabric.

It takes a moment longer to get them off his feet, but then he’s all soft skin and cotton boxers against the sheet. Elliot sighs, practically melts into the bed. You touch the zipper at his throat, feel it snug against his skin, not hurting but holding him.

Your hand follows the trail of teeth down to where his hoodie is rucked up against his belly. He has a generous trail of dark hair here that you can’t see beneath the blankets but you run your fingers through it. You pet it, alternating firm and soft touches, taking your time. Elliot never takes his time with himself, he’s never gentle or careful or kind. You think it’s only right that in this small space, tucked away from the chaos, he is able to luxuriate in this.

Your fingers run up his chest, beneath the hoodie and over his nipples. Elliot doesn’t let people touch him, so even this little is enough to draw a sound out of his mouth. It’s not a moan, but a caught gasp, the sound of surprise when your brain can’t decide if it’s pleasure or pain. Gentleness, for Elliot, is probably both.

His nipples are peaked and the pads of your fingers glide around them, his throat swallows heavy against the zipper, “Please,” he whispers. It takes so little to overwhelm him and you don’t want to scare him off now, you don’t want him to run from you back into Mr. Robot’s arms, so you take your hands out of his shirt, pet the lines of his torso to calm him down.

You can hear his heart beating loudly now, his lungs working hard to bring in enough oxygen against the sensations flooding him. But Elliot stays on his back, he breathes and his eyelashes flutter, and you think he will endure this. This one time he will let himself have something that doesn’t tear and bruise and ruin him.

At the waistband of his boxers now you pause, you touch the cloth as if in question. You give him two full breaths and then when no protest rises, you push these too down his thighs. Your hands move so slowly, firmly. His thighs are warm, smattered dark with hair that nearly tickles. Elliot lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, when was the last time he’d laughed?

That’s neither here nor there, and it wouldn’t do now to get distracted. When the boxers are gone, you move your hands back up to his hips and follow the oblique muscles down to the patch of curly hair, to his cock that’s now hard and radiating heat.

Elliot makes an aching sound when you stop, when you touch around him, fingers gentle down to his balls. You curl your fingers around them, holding the weight, listening to the Ah Ah Ah noises falling from him.

“Please,” he says again, but this one is different, this one is wanting, it is perching upon that razors edge.

And you’ve got so little space to give Elliot what he wants, so you won’t resist, can’t. You let go of his balls and grab the base of his cock, lifting it from the sticky mess it’s made against his skin. Elliot opens his eyes now, just for a moment to strain his head and see the obscene outline of his cock tenting the bedsheet. You know he’s going to make a mess of it, that already his cock is leaking into the sheet, but he’s beyond himself now, incapable of protest.

Your hand slides up the length of him, cupping the head and using the precum there to slick the movement. Elliot’s head falls back to the pillow, his eyes snapping shut as his mouth falls open on a moan. He’s so hot and hard in your hand, so firm and fragile and unable to do anything but let it happen.

Your jerk him off slowly, firm at the base and just barely skimming the head. The head of his cock is still leaking and the sheet is stuck, raspy wet cotton a counterpoint to the gentleness. He’s making all kinds of small noises now, pleading and desperate, his chest heaving hard against the increasing pressure of the hoodie at his throat. You maintain the pressure, the slowness, pull his pleasure out of him one spool at a time.

Elliot’s own hand, previously grasping tightly at the mattress, now moves down to join you. He touches along his abdomen, twines in his pubic hair briefly just to feel the sticky precum left there. He’s getting closer now, his hips want to thrust up into your grip but he’s trying to hold himself down, he’s trying to let it last as long as it can.

He’s panting, sweating, reaching down to rub at his own balls. You slide your hand up his cock again but linger at the head now. “Fuck,” he gasps and you tighten your finger and push the head of his cock through the loop. He’s drenched and the sound is obscene as his cock fucks through your hand. You know he’s almost there and you want to hold him here, you want to wipe him clean of everything except this. The pleasure is rolling over and over on itself, compounding and suffocating him.

Elliot tugs at his balls, fingers desperate and pressing at his perineum, but still he lets your hand tug him so slowly, so agonizing up and up. He’s strung there for a moment, pinned and senseless, unable to find his edges. And then he’s choking, the zipper cutting into his oxygen intake, his heart battering hard in frenzy, near panic. You tighten your fingers and his cock pushes through once and twice and then he’s crying out almost silent without air and coming, gushing, pulsing all over your hand and his sheets and himself.

It’s a gorgeous white fire that goes on for countless breathless seconds where nothing else exists.

And then you and he collapse on each other, pummeled and consumed by the pleasure. You feel buried beneath the weight of matchstick houses, all burned up and snuffed out. You and he relax completely into the bed, welcome of the cold and sticky on all your cindered skin. 

Elliot unzips the hoodie so it doesn’t strangle and he breathes and breathes in the silent apartment. You listen to his heart beat steady and slow. He sighs, content and calm, and smiles at you. Nothing needs to be said, and you are glad of it. Elliot is settled now, slipping with every moment closer and closer to sleep. His eyes close and he cuddles up beside you. You wrap yourself around him.

 

Together, you sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore comments!


End file.
